Tallies
by ColorM
Summary: Dino makes friends with his sketches. And a brooding blond. Light Dino x Tobey friendship fic.


**AN:**

This story literally took me a whole month to write. I'm surprised I'm even posting it with the amount of appreciation I actually have for it. There are a lot of moments in which the writing isn't as great as I thought it to be and I just decide against posting it. However, look at where it's gotten! It's on fanfiction, to my dismay. I'm like seriously worried about it being on here. There are a couple of scenes I didn't know how to get around, so I had to edit it like a thousand times.

I should just probably let you read, right. _Right._

Warning! This story carries heavy tones of depression, violence, and mental instability, in other words, insanity.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**TALLIES**

**l.**

**One.**

He sketches nimbly with a chopped pencil. The jail cement meets his eyes; his vision coming into contact with stains of grime, blood, and occasional chips indented. His bruised knuckles flex, as he presses the pencil against the wall. The pencil bitten by many teeth, some that may have bitten his arm or neck, hurts beneath his palm. He drags it down, creating a strange, crooked line, and he feels frustrated.

He doesn't seem to do anything right.

The tally looks back at him, faintly sloped on the wall. It vaguely smiles, it's eyes missing and nose gone. Dino feels already irritable. It's only a month and he's falling into insanity. Though he knows this is all consequence, his heart beats rapaciously in his chest from the blood pressure increasing through his veins. He's always been some kind of a psycho, a... monster.

The title hasn't bothered him until now though.

The stupid tally is smiling at him, it's amused. It's laughing at the small drops of sanity falling through his fingers. He feels so far from any control. His eyes clenched closed from the thick wall suffused with grim, explicit episodes that he's obligated to reel vividly like a movie.

He shouldn't have killed Pete. He knows this, he tells himself this all the time around.

His parents didn't raise him on such standards and he hardly made any gestures that he would grow up differently. He was a normal kid, there were hardly any loud signs he was going to be unstable, evil. There were a couple thoughts he had—destructive, violent, vicious—but they were small images that flickered at night, when he was bored. Most of the time, he had sports, homework, religious events—ones his parents would ritually attend—that filled his time. When he got that job, that offering, his days grew almost quickly of boredom or of destructive thoughts. He would sit across the computer screen, meetings or dates to assemble, and he thinks of Anita—she was just an assistant before—her hair, porcelain skin, perfection that needed to be scraped. He hated how beautiful and nice she was all at once. Dino had no patience for the resounding affects, the naivety, ignorance, or vanity she held in her heart hidden.

He knew her flaws were better than his would ever be.

She was perfect and he was not. Pete was clever and he was not. Tobey was powerful, great at driving, though his intelligence was lacking, and better than he would ever be. He hated that. He hates them, all of them. He even hates himself.

Most of all, he hates the tally. It's happy than he will ever be, happy and he is not.

"Dino! Idiot!"

He grimaces, shoulders tensing. His palm had sweat with the pencil enveloped inside. He knew there was minimal fear in his eyes, but how could he avoid it—him? He hated feeling like this: powerless.

"Hey! Dino! You deaf or something?" The voice is closer and he feels the sweat slide along his face. He hates feeling below everyone, below someone along his level. He hates it. The fear asphyxiates him like his own suicide and the pencil is tighter in his hand.

The tally's smile increases.

Before he knows it, the pencil is engraved in someone's chest and he feels gooey, cold blood soaking through his fingers.

He hadn't meant to hurt him.

He never does.

**ll.**

**Two.**

The pencil in his hand is larger this time, slim, round, and maroon. It's led is thick like the edge of his fingers. He holds it firmly, still anxious like before. His eyes move to the new wall; he's been moved from the previous room. Yet, the cement wall is heavily brimmed with chips, scrapes, and grime. He's still living in some kind of personal hell, except this time alone. The pencil is his only sense of sanity.

He's slipping fast and noticeably, like quicksand.

No one talks to him, most are scared of the death he's inflicted on his cell inmate. He hadn't meant to do it, but it happened. He had drawn a pencil to the chest and the blood coated the orange attire like paint. It was just a pencil, how did he do so much damage? How does Dino do so much damage with things he cannot control? It's been two years and he's in metaphoric and literal confinement.

He just wants to talk to someone. He just wants a friend, a real friend.

He's always wanted a friend. In his time outside, he had always been famous and popular. Everyone knew his name, cars, and story, but they never knew him. No one was willing to know him. He had grown, over time, quiet, irritable, and brooding. His friends were his cars and even then, the cars did not like him. The cars constantly failed him, making his work look unskilled, pathetic. The cars even got him in here, alone and insane.

His other friends—feelings, thoughts, memories—were all in his head.

He was friends with power, the one emotion that fed to his survival. It was this feeling that zapped him to life. He never ever felt empty, but he still felt alone. Power wasn't enough to fill his time, it was destructive. He did things that were illogical. He spent countless hours competing, when he was no good anyway. He wasn't talented, wasn't skilled, he used hate to fuel his energy, most of the time. It usually always worked, but it never made him talented.

The pencil in his hand presses against the wall. He makes a still strange, crooked line. It slopes like a disapproving frown. He's still some kind of a disappointment. The tally looks back at him, almost offended at the way it's drawn.

He needs to make it proud, he needs to make people proud of him again.

When he was a child, no one cared of a soccer game unless he won. His parents attended every game and applauded each one with enthusiasm, but he could tell that he had done terribly. He made no goals, he couldn't even pass the ball accurately. Soccer was something he couldn't play with talent, but with skill he was sure. In response, he would practice three hours prior to soccer practice alone and two after. Many saw the result of this and soon came to see that he was working harder, but also exceeding expectations. His parents, eventually, saw the work he was placing on himself and their enthusiasm changed into pride; they were proud of him now. It only lasted a while, his hamstring tore; he suffered from an avulsion. He was forced to leave soccer, his thigh was no good and his parents were concerned and disappointed. No one cared of him after nor before, things would remain that way for a while. He didn't care though, he never liked soccer. He just wanted people to be proud of him, and they had been. He guesses in time that feeling fades.

Dino breathes. His own sigh unfamiliar to him.

"Brewster! Here's your meal!" He hears behind him and he almost winces at how loud it is. He's not used to hearing voices, no one talks to him. This is the first voice today that he's heard. It almost sounds pathetic at how much he's enjoying it and how painful it is to hear.

He turns quickly, eyes guarded. He wants to say something, keep him talking, but he doesn't know what to say. The man doesn't even want to talk, he's just doing his job. No one wants to talk to him.

"You 'kay, Brewster?"

Dino softens at this, a marshmallow at best. He just wants someone to talk to him.

"Brewster?"

He never meant to stab the man.

He just had to get out of there. No one else would ever be so nice to him to give him the chance.

Dino thinks that's the greatest friend he's ever had.

**lll.**

**Three.**

The man ended in the hospital with a minor injury. The pencil jab was weak, no harm done. People think that it was an attempt for more isolation, but it was just the opposite. Dino just wanted to go outside.

The minute he stretched the pencil against the wall of cement. He hears a boom outside his confinement.

"Someone's here for you, Brewster."

He takes a breath. His emotions, thoughts, feelings go haywire. He's been in confinement for two years and three months. It's nothing like he knows will come, but it's all he can take. He can't take this isolation, he can't take the fear people get when they look at him. All he wants is all he needs. His fingers tap cautiously on the pencil and for a moment he considers stabbing the man, but he figures it's best to see who's here.

When he is lead to the telephone area—after trucking around fearful and apprehensive glances—he's seated across from a familiar range of eyes. They're green irises swirled with grey, and blonde hair that reminds him vaguely of the person who got him here.

"Hey, Dino."

Tobey. What is he doing here?

"How are you?" The blonde sits across from him, phone against his cheek. He wears a stoic gaze, with hardly any emotion and Dino feels disappointed. He feels disappointed, though gratitude slivers softly through his eyes. He can't help but feel some sense of childish, unusual gratitude. He hates how much power he has over him, how much control is hanging on the other man's thread. He's so tired of being pathetic.

He swallows his spit and places the telephone against his ear. "Great."

He knows how he appears, the opposite of his stated appearance. His eyes are heavy, dark circles coated underneath. The once crimson colored skin has taken a pale turn and his cheeks are sharper than usual. He can actually see the indent of his hipbones and the strange way his skin tries to stretch over it. He hasn't remembered eating and he doesn't feel like it anyway.

Tobey sighs.

"Dino. I'm not—they told me you were going insane, alright? I know what you did and I really don't give—I don't care." He stops, noticing Dino's brief change in expression. The brunette is offended, ashamed mostly, that they brought the person he hates, because he's losing sanity. "I—I don't like you. I don't care about you. You killed Pete, you hit Anita, and you never even looked back." Dino's eyes fade softly, his expectations and gratitude reaches disappointment again. He knows he doesn't deserve it. He knows he's messed up anyway, but it still stings.

The blond notices this.

"Dino, I just—don't hurt anyone." Tobey practically softens, his reply sounding almost like a plead. "Don't do anything worse," he stops, his tongue clicking, "to yourself. You're already 25 years locked in, don't mess this up."

Dino breathes. The telephone enveloped in his hand. The once stoic gaze he held faded into a bitter, almost sour, malicious grimace. Tobey felt the regret sink in at his next words: "I already have."

"Dino, I—"

It's the last of what he hears, the last of any hope that maybe someone cares. The reality is, no one does. The only who can and will is himself.

Suddenly now, that's all he needs, that's enough.

**llll.**

**Four.**

He sketches quickly, with no grace or fine movements, four.

His skin is original to its color, his sharp cheekbones have fattened and his eyes show something other than disappointment: pride. He no longer needs anyone to hold him up, to talk to him. His sketch across the cement is perfect, without skill, without talent. He doesn't need anything to make him special, because practice makes perfect, so why not?

He holds the pencil in his hand.

His inmate nears slowly, not a trace of knowledge in his expression. He hardly knows that Dino plans to use him, just to get out of here and demonstrate how he's changed. He doesn't need people anymore; Dino's got his pride on a shelf that blocks emotions out. It's better this way, he knows, no one is ever going to care about him. He's completely fine with that.

He's completely fine with the pencil struck into his inmates chest—though the blood coats his fingers and he feels cold, he feels nothing—it doesn't bother him. He strikes him repeatedly, his fists harder than the last.

Dino just wishes his parents could see this.

He's finally lost it; his sanity is gone. He wished he could blame the pencil tucked in his hand, but the hands wrapped around the orange utensil would be at fault as well. Therefore, he would be at fault and the pencil would extend it's sharp end at the one to blame. He has no one to blame and needs no one. In life, you have no one but yourself.

When he's greeted by the sun of the sky—after he's escaped and a knife lays by his side—he laughs because all he truly needed for salvation was himself. He needed no one. No one was going to help him and now, nothing is going to curb his actions. Nothing stopped him before, he was a ticking time bomb and no one stopped him. They saw the beauty he was capable of, they saw the talent he was able to do. Now, his tallies have struck the time and now he'll finish what he has to do.

The knife enters his stomach viciously, like tart lime squeezed on his wound, and the blood coats his fingers, but this time it feels warm. His fingers continually drape over the attire, over the blood and he jabs the knife repeatedly until he feels the pain enter like acid. It's never felt better.

"Brewster! Brewster!"

He hears, but his eyes close.

Dino finally sleeps.

The tally on the cement is a perfect line that resembles his heart beats once they rush into the hospital. His body lays stoic on the mattress and his heart refrains from beating. He's alive, but not alive. No one knows the damage of the strange puncture and doctors run to and fro from his hospital bed. If Dino were awake, he would be filled with disappointment and disgust, his plan did not work. Suicide with a pencil was hardly easy, many of the nurses and doctors were amused at this, after he was diagnosed with depression and early Borderline Personality disorder. It was only logical that they had thought so, he spent so much time injuring and aching for affection like a child that it made sense. He just wished they didn't send him to an asylum for the rest of his life.

This wasn't the plan, not on his fourth year.

He guesses that trusting himself was wrong in itself. He doesn't know even what trust is.

The pencil was disguised as his soaking knife, he lied to Dino. He lied to him just like everyone else.

**lllll.**

**Five.**

He cannot draw on cement anymore, he's not allowed pencils. It gets him angry at first, the urge to count his days, but then he remembers these walls are bleak and pale. It's nearly impossible to write on cushions as walls. It's nearly impossible to pretend that everything is going his way, that someone will understand that he just wants someone real. He's a psycho after all, they wouldn't give him a platter of food without feeding it to him knowing what he could do about it.

He writes tallies in his head, straight, vertical.

No one visits him, so it's nearly impossible to conclude anything, but he looks beyond the window every now and then. He counts the dawns and when the moon rises. He keeps his chin up and his eyes locked on the window sill that illuminates every so often. The days pass without him, the sun sets without him. He finds it hard to breathe through the white that he sees, but sometimes he imagines the blood that coated his fingers, and he feels better.

"Dino. Are you feeling alright today?"

The redhead, slim lady speaks and he just wishes he had a pencil. No, he doesn't feel great, he wants to see something else other than this room. He wants to see the sun, he wants to speak to someone who won't write everything he says down. His knuckles crack and he wrestles with the thought of killing her. Dino feels like seeing her blood coat her hair, just as it did to his fingers.

The lady notices his silence. "Dino?"

He turns from her and looks at the window. His hands are strapped inside of this jacket. Half of him wishes to bash her head against that window high above, the other wants to burn her alive. He doesn't know which, but he decides it's nearly impossible anyway since his hands always fail him. Dino smiles. "I'm great."

"Right." She says, warm and high. Her edged nose extends at him, almost like calling him a ridiculous liar. He wearily looks at her eyes. She knows. "Do you want to kill me, Dino?"

"Yes, sometimes." He answers, no hesitance or restraint in his words. He doesn't like her and she probably doesn't like him. He has no problem with that. There's a genuine feeling of indifference when it comes to her. He pushes the issue further. "Do you want to know how I want to kill you?"

"Dino, that—"

"I want to bash your head against that window." He said, eyes cold, almost like icy water condensed into a pair of irises. "And watch the blood trickle on your forehead, because your hair is just so long and red. I _really_ like red."

She doesn't say anything, only nods almost habitually. Dino assumes that maybe she deals with the insane day after day, and her state might just be just as insane. He sees the way she gazes at her paper and pen, as if taunting him. His bright grin puckers into a scowl, and he turns away to the window behind him. The lady is just another one of those people, the ones he exploits and does so cleverly.

"I just want a pencil." He tries, his eyes crestfallen like a puppy. The pen in his view taps against the paper. He fixes his stature to appear small and worthless, just to coax her by using what she thinks is a weakness. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't care about you. You're just doing you're job. I just want to tally the time."

"Just?" She urges on, her eyebrows arching.

"Just."

She clicks her tongue and leans forward to pat him almost generously. Dino smiles.

It doesn't take long to injure her, and she's sent to the infirmary quickly. Her nose was broken and her eye was horribly bruised. The doctors say there is some harsh damage to the skull, but Dino hardly did any damage and he didn't want to anyway. It's not needed for him to kill, he's not gaining anything, nor priding himself on something. It's not necessary, though he's glad he's done dealing with her.

He just finds himself alone again, just like the first time. He thought this really wouldn't bother him, but somehow, the feeling tugs at his stomach. He feels so empty, the isolation and solitude bothers him all over again.

He's not enough for himself.

**llllll.**

**Six.**

He uses the window set across from him to tally the sixth year. It almost feels like a while. They schedule appointments once a week to make sure there's progress, but there never really is. It usually ends with a death threat and Dino's vicious goodbye. He's made it this far without losing his already hanging pride. The blue ink drags across the pale walls of his mind, soft as a couch. It forms a perfect line that slopes, almost gracefully, down the wall. He smiles gleefully. The tally smiles back at him.

"Dino Brewster!"

He hears behind him, angry at just the sound. Can't they see that he is busy? His time is a ticking clock and no one is going to stop it for him. He jolts his head to the side, demonstrating that he's heard. They probably don't understand that it also means to be quick, but Dino remembers that their ignorance is the reason he's here. He's much more deranged than they think he is.

"Someone is here to visit you!"

He breathes.

He isn't excited. He's _not_ excited. Dino, _you are not excited to kill_, he tells himself. He can't kill everyone now, besides they'll never let him out if he's insane.

"God, Dino."

Tobey?

He turns around and his stomach drops. He hadn't expected to see him again. There was this notion that he could care less and Dino found the situation redundant. The blond was still carrying that stoic gaze, but something was different. His eyes carried something else: sympathy, concern? Dino could care less of that now. He had taken the time to get over his childish needs of affection and care. Tobey didn't need to look at him with those eyes. No one had to anymore, not the nurses, nor the auxiliaries, not even himself. He was done with that. He had grown up.

"I'm sorry." The blond muttered, his stance apprehensive. "I'm sorry, Dino."

"I thought you weren't." He chuckled, his voice full of amusement. He saw no sense in this conversation. Tobey was full of fake pretenses and that would never change. "Now that I'm insane I get sympathy? God, you are so full it."

"I saved your life, so you would see that there are people who aren't like you. I'm not like you. Pete wasn't like you—"

"Jesus," he sighed, annoyance laced through his words, "we get it. Pete died and it was because I'm capable of no feelings and emotions. I get it."

"No, you don't." He started, his determination locked into place. Dino could see he pulled the ignition on and did so stupidly. He didn't want to hear him scold and chastise him for suicide. It was his insanity to deal with, not Tobey's. Didn't he have that girl from England or something? He couldn't occupy his time with that? "If you did, you wouldn't have attempted suicide like a depressed sixteen year old."

"Is that what makes you angry?" He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed into slits. "I was close to ruining your heroic success into some teenage story that just doesn't sum up? Did it ever occur to you that maybe something's just not right in my head? That maybe that's why I act like some nutcase, not because I'm looking for your imbecilic attempts at charity? I'm neurotic, Tobey, deal with it."

Tobey's words were thwarted, flattened, and effaced. He had expected some ridiculous response, some cheap, illogical excuse, but what he got was worse. He had been given a reason to forgive, he had been given a reason to sympathize. Tobey was silenced, with not a word to say. He noticed that he had been just a little off, that he had held something against someone who could not control it. His tongue sat still in his mouth.

Dino chuckled. This is the first time that Tobey doesn't bother.

"I'm sorry then—"

"I don't want it—"

"Well, you're gonna have to take it. I'm sorry and you're right, but," he stopped, his breath needed, as he stepped forward, "I'm the only person you've got."

"Got?" He grew tense, his back had moved from the wall.

"They say that I should visit twice a week to help—"

"Wait a minute, what? You're not coming. You're not—I don't need you." Dino sputtered, his straitjacket bothering him as he felt himself stiff. He couldn't believe this was happening, he couldn't process that this was a result. He had head-butted a couple therapists and given them a black eye, and this is what he gets. It sounds almost unreasonable if you ask him. There were other things, other methods they could try, not this blond headed idiot. He couldn't stand watching that stoic gaze that he wore so tediously, it was like watching Nicholas Cage for three hours. Dino felt rage, it was soaring in his stomach like a ticking bomb.

"You injured fifteen therapists! I think you need any other than nothing." He stated, his words had abruptly cut his thinking process.

There was silence.

"It wasn't fifteen therapists—"

"Yeah, I'm just making it easier for you to eat—"

"You mean sugarcoating?—"

"Same thing! I'm just—you killed a guy!—"

"I didn't kill anyone, you piece of sh—"

"Oh, I'm the piece of s—?"

"—must be some kind of Greek torture to have to deal with your idiocy day after day—"

"—at least I didn't try and kill myself with a pencil—"

"You should have."

**lllllll.**

**Seven.**

He's allowed to carry pens in his hands now. The doctors and nurses are at shock at his behavioral changes. He doesn't headbutt nurses or therapists that enter his room. He doesn't threaten anyone or glare with vitriolic eyes. He behaves just as they want him to. They praise him and award him for his good behavior and Dino chuckles just at the thought. Solely for his smiles, good words, and willingness of silence interruption, everyone thinks he's on a good stance. He's actually allowed outside of the straitjacket, instead of only when with therapists, he's free for the longitude of his time. They're giving him a pen again and he smirks smug.

All he has to do is behave.

The tally written across his sweat glistened hand is straight, much like a stoic glare. Dino pretends this doesn't bother him. The tally isn't mad at him. It can't be.

"Dino Brewster! Visitor!" He hears behind the white door inserted through the wall. His shoulder goes tense.

He knows what this means—a familiar blond is at his door. Tobey's here for a visit and the dread fills him. Seven months in and he's still not used to seeing him day after day. They talk and speak, but the words pass by like scripts given to them by writers. Dino wants nothing to do with him and Tobey neither. They don't mash, they don't mix, and each time they clash, he's reassured of the notion. It could take them twelve years to actually speak without the awkward air efflorescing around them. It's like the more they talk, the more they feed that wall between them. Dino would just appreciate that they stop forcing him to speak to that brooding idiot. The boots behind the door, loud as they clomp towards it, only push his vexation forward. The only reason he's behaving is because of Tobey...

_Great._ He gets it now.

"Hi."

Tobey strides in, in all his plaid glory and Dino groans. Those damn green eyes are just about near to pushing Dino towards suicide again. He can't stand him, nor his vacant, yet smug glances. The blond stands in the middle of the bleak bedroom and says not a word after. He usually takes a step towards the seat across from Dino, but, today, he only stands. His attire consisting of the usual dark jeans, leather jacket amongst plaid sweater, and the famous brown boots. There's this unsettling look in his eye: happiness? Dino doesn't know, but he moves his gaze from the man and pretends he doesn't feel a little appreciative of the actual not somber look in the other man's eyes. It swirls a sick feeling in his stomach and Dino tries to remind himself to keep his pretenses, to remember to hate Tobey. He hates him. He's not his friend.

_"I—I don't like you. I don't care about you. You killed Pete, you hit Anita, and you never even once looked back."_

Dino's eyes grow stoic again and the feeling of gratitude eventually fades. He repeats the words over and over in his head. They have engraved in his memory like words on a tombstone and it's enough to send him back to the icy stance he had held before.

"Uh, I've heard about your progress," Tobey smiles with a sense of falsity, "it's—congratulations."

"It must make you feel successful on your charity case, no?" Dino retorts, his eyes narrowed into acidic slits.

Tobey immediately freezes.

"What's your problem?! I'm trying to work at this and you act like a pompous schizoid. I don't want to fight with you, Dino. I don't want revenge. I finished that a while ago. I just—I just—." He stops, taking a breath. His eyes brimmed with frustration and something alike disappointment.

Disappointment? He's disappointed?! His disappointment and frustration means nothing to Dino. It means nothing compared to being insane, socially anxious and deprived of genuine emotions given to him. It isn't anything compared to the number of people he's injured, just because he wants someone to listen. He doesn't understand that for six years Dino is confused, angry, depressed, sad, and guilt ridden and he doesn't even know why. He doesn't know why the pain is still there, why he still needs someone to call a friend. He doesn't get why his freaking emotions and tallies are still not enough. Dino doesn't understand why he feels so alone and so empty, even though people are trying to fix him nevertheless. He doesn't get it. He doesn't get it! _HE DOESN'T GET_—

"Dino, you alright?" He hears softly, like a snowflake to his ears. "I'm sorry. This is just driving me crazy—"

"YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE CRAZY!" He screams, his throat stinging and eyes wet. "You think I enjoy missing a freaking screw? You think I don't wish I could just stop hurting everyone!? You have no idea what the hell is going on in here." Dino shouts, as his finger presses into his head as a gesture.

"Dino—" Tobey tries, his eyes crestfallen.

"GET OUT! GET OUT!" Dino roars, his breath faltering as he does.

Is that it? Is that all Tobey was going to say? He was going to pretend he understands and then be on his way? He's a piece of falsity and fake pretenses. Dino's tired of having to hold his regrets high and having to pretend that he doesn't care. He's tired of holding this load over his head and constantly having to accept the trash that people give him, Tobey gives him. He doesn't deserve that crap. He doesn't deserve anything and he knows that. He just wishes he didn't feel like he was sinking into a deep, shallow hole. He wishes he didn't feel like maybe he does deserve this trash anyway. Pete died, Anita has scars, and he almost killed the guy who continuously fed him. He almost killed... _Tobey._ He always does stupid things to feel better and it never works. He never feels better and no one ever feels better either. He's just a piece of cynical hostilities and neurotic defenses. The mere fact of his insanity is what makes it harder for him to listen to anything anyone says anymore. He's tired of not being worth it.

"I'm sorry, Dino." Tobey finishes, taking a step back towards the door. He fills his eyes with a void and nothing sputters out. Dino wipes his own, before the man takes a halt before the door. "I thought I hated you at first, when I first came—the jail visit. But, I thought about how I keep coming back and doing all this ridiculous junk I thought I hated and I realized—"

"What?" Dino asks with a bite.

"I care about you a lot more than I let on."

The door shuts before he can say anything back.

**llllllll.**

**Eight.**

A year passes and Dino hears nothing from Tobey again.

The tally on his palm makes him flinch. His skin as pale as real paper, he smiles at how things strangely connect. The dark circles under his eyes, the collarbone that protrudes his skin, the hair that shrouds his chin in tiny particles, these things remind him and continually make him ponder towards how long he's been in here. It all comes as a connective tendon or tissue, straining over weak, unused muscle, towards Tobey. It plugs him, clicks in his head, how he had some sort of a friend, but it never dawned on him until he left him here alone again...without a friend. His only friends being, once again, his emotions and those tallies he loves to draw so much. He looks back at the one in his hand, taking in its strange gaze...it's strange length. It's not smiling at him, or frowning, or disapproving him. It's just there. The tally written across his skin, staring back at him, is just there. For the first time, it isn't judging him. It isn't talking to him. It isn't alive.

His heart sinks like it's drowning.

He closes his fist and pretends that it's asleep. Tally never sleeps, but he doesn't think about it. He can't think about it. Who is going to talk to him? Who is going to accompany him when he just wants someone there? Who? Who would even do that for him anyway? He's a murderer, an insane criminal, someone who jabs you with a pencil just because he wants friends. Therefore, why would anyone waste their time on him, especially when he's killed, beaten, injured, traumatized, and pushed everyone out just for the sake of himself? Who does that?

If he wanted a friend, he could have just asked! The pity and the guilt and anger was illogical, because he would have ended alone anyway. He did end alone anyway, his crappy way of handling things got him here alone again. All of those therapists could have been his friends. Anita could have been a friend. Tobey...Tobey could have, maybe, sometime in the great, great, great future, been his friend. Pete. Pete could have been his friend.

Pete could have had many friends.

Dino winces, his eyebrows close. There's an unusual sentiment coursing through him, strange and peculiar to his senses, but he takes it in. He lets the urge of apology ride through his head, roll off his tongue.

"I'm sorry. Pete."

It doesn't feel like much, and really it's not, but it makes him proud of himself. Not proud because he's done good in apologizing, not proud because he's had an epiphany, but proud, because he's done being contemptible. He's done being stupid on his actions. He's done hurting other people, because they're ignorant and they don't understand. He finds that the most change he had gotten was when Tobey was around and in return, all he did was scream at him for his held in emotions bottled up. It makes him sound like a rampaging adolescent, and to much of his dismay, that's what he was. He was a rampaging adolescent. His actions, however angry he was, never grew to help him over the course of the eight years in here. All of his actions and suicide attempts and angry threats and isolation, they all became some kind of personal punishment for how self-interested he was. The logical, less egotistical side of thinking in his head was the only one who saved him from utter chaos after he killed Pete.

He knew he kept the car for something.

Dino smiles.

He kept the red car, unbeknownst to his ego, to get caught and save himself.

**lllllllll.**

**Nine.**

Months pass and Dino feels different.

His eyes radiate, from what the nurses say, with something other than despondency and vacancy. He holds something else in them that reflect against the mirror. He doesn't know what it is nor how it's supposed to feel, but it sure as hell gives him some relief. The reflection that stares back at him is a good one. It's fuller, the color back in its skin, the circles beneath his eyes pink. He doesn't see the prominent cheekbones anymore, poking out like a decaying corpse. He sees lighter eyes and a familiar smile. He sees a thicker jaw without hair cladding heavily across and scary, ominous bones protruding his skin. He sees himself and only himself. There aren't any tallies, or fuzzy emotions blocking his head—mostly because of the current medication, but nevertheless that. Dino sees something familiar, he recognizes something familiar. He sees the kid he was before he even knew what soccer was. He sees his best friend. Dino.

Not Dino Brewster. Not the one who sells cars or plays soccer. Not the one who bullied kids in his class. Not any of that—all of everything that was wrong with him.

Dino. Just Dino.

It sounds like some kind of progress, a lot actually. Yet, Dino still feels far from fixed. There are days that he feels like he can't trust anyone, like someone, anyone hates him for just what he's done, judges him for what he did to everyone. Mornings where he just hates himself and wishes he could just stop breathing one day. He wishes he could be someone else, he wishes he wasn't Dino—someone better and brighter. If the day is extremely bad, then he's probably tried to bash his head open against the walls—even though the thought is impossible with the architectural design. He gets angry and irritated, and just finally cries with exhaustion of it all. Dino finally grows tired with himself and who he is, all his mistakes, all of his ridiculous flaws. If not, the moments avert to where he wants to watch the blood trickle on someone, just anyone. He threatens them, aching for just someone to burst their head open for him. He wants to see blood. Blood. Blood. It all plays and rolls like a blurred movie behind his eyes, flickering violently.

He's far from fixed.

Yet, sometimes, on some rare days, he feels like this—good. He feels okay and normal and far from anything that's happened in the last few days. There isn't a violent, self-inflicting thought he's had. He just feels good. Those days are the good ones, those are the ones he hopes for, the lack of thoughts in his head pounding ferociously are the best of days. He doesn't skip or smile, but he also doesn't cry. He also doesn't want to stab himself with a fork or impale himself in the gut with glass.

Therefore, they let him go outside. His nurse believes him to be healthy enough now.

The sun is blinding, but beautiful. It flashes in the sky amongst the cotton clouds, backdropped by a blue he hasn't seen in a while. Being in his room, the only time he sees the sky is through a small window. It taunts him on his bad days, laughing at him, but he doesn't think of it now. He stares at the blue blue sky and the perfect clouds that shape up above. The light of the day reflects against the grass, almost like shiny spikes on someone's head. It almost resembles his head, just that makes him laugh. Dino almost forgets that all years ago, these things bothered him. He hated the sun, the grass, the clouds, the sky. Now, he stares amongst the vibrant grass and sees the water drops still glisten on the tiny strands of vegetation. He absolutely revels in the sun. Everything about the world outside makes him feel good. He doesn't think he likes only getting thirty minutes outside.

Dino sits back on the red bench.

The breeze hits against his face, softly, almost cold. He sucks his cheek a little—a habit he lost in middle school. It always helped him heat up and was just a fun little feeling. His parents told him to stop it though, despite the personal enjoyment he took in it, they believed the habit to sound annoying, vexing. Dino never really cared. He still doesn't. As the cold wind sweeps across his face like a refreshing shower, he takes the time to internalize everything.

Eight years and nine months have passed. He's still crazy and still brooding, but he's different.

He's not a complete monster.

"You're really thinking."

He hears a familiar voice, a woman. It's vague, because he hardly remembers, but it's there in the back of his brain. _Someone._ He tilts his eyes to greet black stilettos and then they greet her tight black dress. It's something different to see someone and he doesn't expect much, but he's surprised to see it's her. Pale skin, black hair, eyes that droop like rain—Anita.

Why is she here?

"What are you doing here?" He asks, shock and happiness all at once. He wasn't expecting her to visit, ever. He knew what he had done to her. He always does. The memories never leave him on his bad days. Dino's irises flash transparently, his emotions shine through. "You really shouldn't be here."

"Your eyes say different." She says amusedly, her finger gestured at his eyes. She was always so clever. "How are you?"

"I'm...great." He replies, mostly unsure of how to describe his status at the moment. The dictionary never had enough words for him, even when he was small and all he ever did was talk with words too big for his little head. "How are you?"

Dino looks at her. Her eyes swirling with patience. Her mouth curled into a lazy smile. She looks happy, beautiful, everything she wasn't with him. He gets slightly warm at just the feeling. The girl was never happy this way with him, she never would be. He was crazy, neurotic and even now, better off alone. He hit her if she ever made him feel anything less of the best. His words were even worse if she ever let him know he wasn't. Something told him he should have seen that insanity earlier on, but it was too late to contemplate. Watching her now, she was coruscating, better than he ever was. Her hair was shorter and shiny across her chest, wavy and curled like a haywire tally. He drifted his eyes downward and noticed her small tattoo engraved on her pinky. He doesn't ask, because he doesn't really care.

She wouldn't answer anyway.

"I'm good." She nods.

"Okay." He nods as well.

Anita notices quickly of the depleting conversation and just starts for what she has come for. He knows that it wasn't him. There was hardly anything here, especially since he killed her brother—_especially that_. "Um, Tobey wanted me to check on you. He wanted to see if you were okay."

He sighs heavily, regretting his senseless curiosity. "Oh."

"Dino, he really cares about you—for some reason! He was curious about your condition as of the moment and I was," she clicked her tongue frustratingly, "too."

"Oh." He said again, hardly sure of how to react at the moment. He was never good at feelings and all that, especially with someone he couldn't admit he missed. It was just degrading to himself and his ego and he wouldn't speak of it.

"I don't—this doesn't mean anything. I'm with someone." She quickly quipped, turning her eyes from him. Her hands settled on her lap.

"Okay."

"You should call Tobey. He really wants to talk to you and—"

"Why?" Dino slices, his response like acid. "I'm not his friend. I'll never be his friend. I don't see why Tobey cares! I was here and he never called and!—"

"He called every two weeks for you!" She stopped him, her words like quick fire. There was a certain annoyance in her eyes, that flashed irritatingly at him. It was a gesture that spread throughout her like a pathogen, she was angry and she could not control it. He didn't know what she was so mad about though. Tobey hardly called, he hardly came in, and it's been a year since he has. There was no hint that they ever became friends. They hardly spoke like friends. Abruptly, her voice halted his thoughts. "He couldn't talk to you, because you didn't want him to. He couldn't talk to you, because he wasn't so sure he cared—he was scared to sympathize for you. But, he cared, he's cared ever since you got sent here, because he just can't help caring about people. He just can't help that he cares, Dino."

"How did you know?"

"What?" She questioned, frazzled.

"How did you know that I didn't want him to? What if I did?" Dino mumbled, holding his eyes to the straight, perfected grass. His irises were glassy to the girl beside him, whilst the thoughts in his head bounced like a rapacious earthquake. He needed to go back inside. He didn't know how to feel about all of this. His violent and self-inflicting thoughts were spiraling and it was hurting him. "What if I just needed one call? What if I just needed someone? What if—I can't—I can't breathe. I can't breathe! I have to go."

"Dino. Dino, are you okay?"

His thoughts were racing like a collision of cars. He needed to get out of there. He needed to get this thoughts together. He needed. He needed space.

The moment he stumbled off the bench, his feet moved instinctively.

And he ran.

**llllllllll.**

**Ten.**

It takes ten minutes for the nurses to find him shrouded in a corner behind the building. His knees tucked against his chest, hands clasped in his hair. He looked frantic, tears smeared across his face and his once pale cheeks reddened from the moments he constantly rubbed his face. Most of the nurses don't say anything, their worry for the man intensive. They believe him to be unwell; he's not responding and he seems to be stuck in his head, murmuring to himself with a vacant gaze. They calculate that his head is trying to cope with the recent news and it's not major, but it's "imperative" that no one visits him for a while. He could be dangerous and his long history of injuries make him infamous. Fifteen therapists, three cell mates, five doctors, and several uncounted for victims have him listed down as unsafe. It, his mental instability, is also the reason he might be locked in a mental hospital for the rest of his life. Ten minutes and they've calculated as much as the jury can in two months.

Tobey sighs. His back resting in his chair, he feels his leather jacket heavy on his shoulders.

He feels so damn sympathetic for the guy. It almost hurts, no bothers him, like it stung him that he wasn't in jail. Now it does, now Tobey doesn't want him to be in or out. He doesn't want him to be like this, but he doesn't want him free, innocent. He really just wants to not feel guilty and pretend that Dino is some sort of psycho by choice. Everything was so much easier to deal with when he was okay and not crazy. He knew which side was black and which was white. He understood that the antagonist, the real bad guy, was the one who was home free in his ridiculous mansion. Now, Tobey is questioning what's good and what's bad. Along all of those thoughts, he rolls in that Dino's not bad, but he's not good, and for some reason, it's by default, not be choice. He scratches his head every now and then thinking about it, but it's befuddling. Dino's so damn befuddling.

It's not even that either, it's that little gap of humanity he sees in his eyes every now and then.

He sees it—the human—in him when he arrives early on Wednesdays and Sundays, or used to. He would see it in his eyes, like little marbles of transparent glass, that he was angry. The man was angry, but only because he was excited that someone was here. He was excited that someone cared, genuinely. It would fix in his eyes like tiny swirls of different transparencies, but that was the one he wore the most: excitement. Tobey liked to call it the crusade, mostly because he hardly knew how to explain the different feelings through his eyes, but he knew it was a crusade of emotions. There was anger, irritation, excitement, vulnerability, fear, ache, but most of all, happiness. Happiness would radiate his cheeks like embarrassing frosting left from eating cake or something, and it would leave Tobey feeling _so...good?_ He'd feel guilty, sympathetic, but most importantly, good. It was the reason he'd grown to care about someone he shouldn't have and it was like a lethal, life-threatening disease that made him soft and...caring.

He didn't like that.

"He's really unwell. I don't think it's safe for you to come in."

Except, sometimes, it made him feel like lying in the grey area of good and bad was okay. The first time he saw him, back about three years ago, he hated looking at him. He wanted nothing to do with him and he felt like a traitor to Pete just doing so. His own thoughts were meddling and he couldn't agree towards any sympathy. But, he felt it. He felt sympathy. He felt some kind of curiosity. He wanted to know what would happen to Dino, he wanted to know what was going on with Dino. It was the moment he realized he already cared all too much of a murderer, but it hardly mattered, because it was already happening and he was already caring. He had already cared about Dino.

It happens too fast with him. He finds himself enveloped in other people's lives way too fast.

It happened with Julia, Pete, Anita, the boys and now... _Dino_.

He's invested in Dino. He's too concerned on Dino.

It shocks him, merely because he swore he would never set eyes or even save his damn life again, but it surprises him because that's just what he's doing. He's saving Dino's life and he doesn't feel so bad. He doesn't feel so amazing either, but mostly, he doesn't feel so bad. It makes him feel okay, maybe even a little fulfilling, just because he likes having him for company. Yes. He does. There are moments when Tobey realizes there could be friendship, and it sounds so hopeful and so stupid, but then Dino closes himself like a trap door. He manages to disappoint Tobey and disappoint him in a way he doesn't even like—right on Pete. He disappoints him and gives him so many damn reasons to stop saving his life. Yet, he does. Yet, he wants to.

He doesn't know how to make sense of things, make sense of himself.

"Sir, I think you shouldn't stay here. Dino will not—can't—take any visitors." He hears above him like a gentle nudge. It's a brunette with a pale white dress on. She seems to be urging for him to leave. For some reason, he just can't.

"When will he be well again?" Tobey asks, his voice raspy from the months of colds and fevers he's had. His eyes are almost shaped like tired sideway teardrops.

"Well, we really don't know." She tells him, trying to be as giving and honest as she can. Her blue irises stared intently at the man. He felt like he was being calculated and checked up for some kind of disease right along with insanity just for all of this mess he's placed himself in. "Dino's a very delicate case. His mind is like that of a young child. It's not sure how to take in too much information without his own analysis first. Usually it's to make sense of things, but for Dino, it's just to make sure he's protecting himself from what might be disappointment or embarrassment and altering it to prepare his neurotic defense mechanism."

"Oh." Tobey said, already feeling sympathy again for someone he supposedly doesn't like. "Is there even a way to just...help him?

"Therapy, medications, but most importantly," she flashed her eyes coyly, "you."

He wasn't even going to ask about it. He knew that he was already big help, so it was something that he would probably shrug his shoulders to. _Tell me something I don't know._

He kind of wished Dino understood that though, that he's just trying to help him because he needs to—because maybe he wants to.

"So, are you staying this evening?" She taps her feet knowingly, waiting for him to talk.

"Maybe. I think I'll just call later if I don't."

**lllllllllll.**

**Eleven.**

Dino wakes just before the sun rolls up.

He's confused, tired, and already angry. Most of what happened yesterday is a blur, he hardly remembers a thing. He just knows that someone made him cry like some pathetic loser and now he's here again, locked in the bed, in a ridiculous straitjacket. It happens so often that maybe he's just mad that it's today, that he thought he was making some damn progress and he never seems to. He never seems to be good enough for himself and maybe as time comes and days change, one day he will, but today he feels like a disappointment.

They let him go, just a while after his checkup though.

"You look to be all set. Do you feel okay?"

It sounds like a simple question, but it isn't. He only feels okay on the good days, and he already knows that today is not a good day. He already knows she'll have to come in and strap him down just to keep himself sane, but he feels bad just telling her so. They struggle so much just to accommodate him and get him feeling good and well and everything someone is supposed to feel. He never feels that way though, so he just shrugs in her eyes, all small and weak. He can't do much else, because that seems to be out of his actual control.

She presses a hand on his shoulder and smiles like the sun. Her blue eyes that resemble the skies flash at him. "You've been doing amazing so far. Just, just hold up for a little while."

Dino curls his lip upward. "I'm trying."

"Good." She says, closing her teeth into a warm smile instead. "That's all you need to do."

He smiles, much to his dislike of it, and she lets him out.

He doesn't notice much when he's walking out of the room, or remember anything. His body is soft, weak, and it pads against the floor like a mop. There isn't much on his mind other than sleep, but he assumes that's why he forgets as much as he does in the morning. If he wouldn't be such a lost sleep cause, he would probably be himself, a better himself he means. He slings his head to the floor, lethargic, and tries to remember exactly where he was supposed to be walking. Most of the nurses and doctors extended their hands at him like old friends he's taken upon hurting or something. He only sees it just as he shuffles his way to the corner, right in front of the office doors—Tobey.

Everything hits him like a soft hit on the head with a pillow.

_Anita, feelings, Tobey, he cares, I was wrong, I was wrong?_ Dino narrows his eyes into slits. His feet remained on the same floor and he made no gesture he was going to move. He wouldn't do that to himself or Tobey, he knew that it would be better if he just decided on talking later. It was already embarrassing to be barefoot in a mental hospital and now with no sensation in his fingers and an almost stupid way to act yesterday, he's pushing it.

Suddenly, Tobey turns. He had been wearing one of those infamous leather jackets. His tired eyes easing into a soft gaze. It's like he already knew, like he already feels bad. Well, of course he does. Those nurses, they tell him everything. Every time he comes back, there's something else he has to feel bad about, whether it's the psycho's tendency to cry or his tendency to snap at people like it's okay to be that defensive.

It's hesitant, but Dino realizes then that it's even more awkward now if he leaves without talking. He can't pretend he didn't see him when he did, can't pretend he hadn't been watching him. Therefore, he walks slowly, carefully over to the blond, and holds his chest up. He's not a kid, he's not an adolescent. He's Dino. Not Dino Brewster. Just Dino.

"I'm sorry." He stifles out, still standing before Tobey. It sounds weird, especially out of him, but then he remembers Anita yesterday. He also remembers the nurse telling him that a friend had been waiting and he knew no one other than Tobey. It was like he just didn't want Tobey sometimes, with the obvious gestures here and there, and at first he didn't, but he realized who else could he want as a friend? Who else would even consider him visit worthy? Anita had only come to fill in his spot and even then she hadn't really enjoyed herself. He been purposely blinding himself so long to a friend he had already had. "You were right."

It sounds so ridiculously weird. He tries to settle in comfort, but it doesn't come. Instead, Tobey talks, his words with caution. "Yeah, I know."

Strangely, he doesn't anger himself at that. He laughs. His grin strange to his own face. He hasn't done that in years. There were a couple of moments that he could have doubled over in laughter, but he never knew how to. He never even knew he could feel. He never knew he could feel amusement just like everybody else, and now as the feeling runs through him like a soft shock, he smiles even wider. The words like gratitude on his tongue, he speaks softly. "You didn't have to be here."

"I—I know." He shrugs.

"Okay." He decides on, taking a seat in the blue chair next to him. It was apprehensive, and made him feel anxiety, being this close to someone he's still just slightly guarded about. It wasn't going to be easy, but he remembered about Anita. He remembered about the nurse. He remembered about the cell mates he had. He remembered about the prison guard. It all snook back into him, to just trying, like the nurse told him. It wouldn't hurt to try, because it all stung more to lose _someone_ permanently than to try.

"You didn't have to talk to me." Tobey adds, a smile etched into his face.

"I know." He copied, taking his eyes far away from the man beside him.

He looked beyond the streaming halls, beyond the streaming doors. There were so many of his nurses, yet he hardly realized that he hadn't ever taken upon talking to them, not like Tobey.

"Okay." Tobey mocked, as he chuckled just at the gesture.

Throughout the laughter, Dino never realized he hadn't tallied today. He had forgotten to draw the straight line across the palm of his hand. He had forgotten to count the days that stream. He had forgotten his supposed friend.

If the tally would have been alive, it would have frowned. Glancing at the man who would have held him in his palm, finally in progress, it would have frowned in jealousy. However, the emotion would have been brief, Dino thinks, maybe the stupid slope would have smiled after. Maybe he would have been proud of him, not because he succeeded or he because he had won, but because he had a friend now. The tally would have finally smiled at him, because he wouldn't be the only one doing so, he wouldn't be his only friend.

And, _Dino,_ Dino would be okay.

* * *

**AN:**

I hope you guys enjoyed this. I really did, well enjoy writing it, I mean. Every time I write, I build some sort of a connection with the characters, which is why I wrote 10k of just pure Dino. I really loved his character and the potential they gave him, despite how messy the story and film really is.

Also, I couldn't help inserting Tobey/Dino. I just love the idea of that friendship more than anything―two stubborn, brooding guys who refuse to be friends. It's amusing and inevitable, because the understanding is just there. Also, I felt like there was unresolved tensions in the movie between them.


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